


Teen Wolf One-Shots/Imagines/Drabbles

by marypoppinsyall



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adorable Derek, Derek Hale Feels, Derek is a Softie, F/M, Sister Stilinksi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-20 00:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12421497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marypoppinsyall/pseuds/marypoppinsyall
Summary: Exactly what the title says. A jumbled series of one-shots, imagines, and drabbles mostly transferred from my Tumblr account. Not gonna lie, there's a lot of Derek, and Derek taking joy from Peter's misery.Mostly written as OC's, but can be read as reader inserts.





	1. Please

 

**Summary** : Peter is annoying.

**Pairings** : Derek/OC/reader (hinted)

 

               She barely spared him a glance over her shoulder.

               “You disgust me. “

               Peter grinned wolfishly as she moved away from the table, slinging the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

               “Oh, come now little witch, don’t be like that,” he drawled as he leaned against the pillar, grin widening as his eyes raked over her form. “I think you’re curious.”

               She scoffed, moving around the loft haphazardly cramming her belongings in the front pocket.

               “Yes. Curious why it took someone so long to kill you and why in  _God’s_ name you can’t manage to stay dead.”

               Stiles attempted to pass off his snort of laughter as a cough, Scott sinking further down into the couch cushions beside him as Derek watched on in amusement he didn’t bother to conceal.

               Unperturbed, Peter continued to watch her as she corralled the boys off the couch and towards the door.

               “My, my, what a wicked tongue you have my dear.”

               She stopped in her tracks, turning slowly in a way that made Peter’s eyes twinkle but Stiles and Scott’s to widen. A sultry grin broke out across her face as she finally raised her eyes to meet his, moving to stop a few inches in front of him and allowing the tip of her pink tongue to peek out from between her teeth to graze her bottom lip. Derek hadn’t moved from his spot, scowling slightly as he watched the exchange. A scowl that quickly blossomed into a grin he had to turn to the window to hide.

               “It’s the only wicked thing of mine you’ll ever lay eyes on.”

               With a grin and a pat on his cheek she turned briskly on her heel, striding back towards the pair of giggling teenagers.

               “Let’s go, boys. I’ve had enough witty repartee for one evening.”

               Grabbing one by the arm and the other by the hood, she strode out of the loft, Scott managing to drag the door closed with a clang that sounded over Stiles cackling something akin to  _‘best sister in the world.’_

               Peter watched them go, eyes twinkling.

               “That’s a ripe firecracker you’ve chosen.”

               Derek huffed behind him, busying himself clearing away the mess they had made of his kitchen table.

               “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

               Peter turned to him, eyebrow raised and a knowing look on his face.

               “Please.”


	2. Dog Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Parrish share an awkward moment, Stiles makes Derek’s life a living hell. 
> 
> Pairings: Derek x OC/reader, slight Parrish x OC/reader

 

Derek watched her through the small window leading to the back-treatment area, headphones crammed in her ears as she poured over the old books and ancient texts spread out across the exam table in front of her. A small cot had been set up for her in the corner, near the vent so it was dark and warm. It had remained untouched since it had been made, even her bag set in the chair next to her. It didn’t matter that it was 3 AM. It didn’t matter she hadn’t slept in days, the dark bags hanging under her eyes betraying her when she insisted she wasn’t tired.

His hard gaze followed her movements, sometimes collected as her eyes scanned a page or passage, sometimes erratic as she tracked down another leather-bound text, unmasking her otherwise concealed Stilinski heritage. His ears tracked her heartbeat, ebbing, and flowing with her motions, and the trace of the much too loud music blasting through her ear buds.

                _She’s a little complicated_

_Make her mind up just to change it_

His eyebrows furrowed together.  _Country_? His relationship with Stilinski spawn the elder had grown and evolved since their triumphant return to Beacon Hills to answer Scott’s call to arms, but even through their necessity based former relationship he had never known her to listen to country music. A voice sounding from behind him voiced his thoughts, breaking him out of his own mind.

 “Ten bucks says its country.”

Derek turned to face the deputy, out of uniform and nursing another cup of steaming coffee, the number undoubtedly unhealthy even for a hellhound. Confusion must have been written all over Derek’s face, as Parrish motioned through the window with his mug.

“Country music. I listen to it when I’m stressed, she picked up from me when we were, you know…together.” He finished with a bashful chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He reeked of discomfort, and it took all Derek had not to turn up his nose at the stench.

“Yeah,” he mumbled after an awkward moment. “It is.”

Parrish nodded, blowing on the molten liquid more out of habit than necessity before taking a sip. They stood, side by side, watching the woman on the other side of the door scramble around in her sleep deprived haze. It wasn’t long before curiosity and need to break the uncomfortable silence got the better of the werewolf.

“Country?” Derek asked with a raised eyebrow.

Parrish released a genuine chuckle this time, taking a step back to turn to the larger man a fraction.

“Yeah, it’s all anyone listened to on deployment.” His eyes glazed over slightly as images only he could see flashed in behind his eyes. “It was…grounding.” His small, nostalgic smile didn’t reach the rest of his face, Derek understood instantly and Parrish must have sensed this. He broke out of his trance, clearing his throat with a grateful smile.

“Anyway,” he continued, less gracefully than he had intended, “she hardly needs a hound hanging around when she has a wolf. Not that a witch really needed either one in the first place.”

He answered Derek’s questioning eyebrow with a knowing smirk.

“She always was a dog person, if you know what I mean.” The grin that spread across his face and small bit of pride building up in his chest at his own wit faltered at the withering look Derek focused in his direction. He pinched his lips together, grip tightening on the handle of his mug as he moved backwards.

“Right. I’m just going to…” He averted his eyes, clearing his throat as he turned away and scurried out of Derek’s sight.

With a deep breath of long-practiced, all shall endure patience he turned his focus away from the retreating example of Beacon Hill’s finest back to why he was in this mountain ash trap of a building in the first place. He wished she would sleep, but the battle to get her to eat was still fresh in his mind. The remainder of the evidence of his victory was discarded by the sink, and he winced as he remembered what it took to get her to consume what she did. She felt responsible. He knew she did because he knew he would if he were in her position. The coven currently hunting down members of the pack had been drawn to her, to her power. Her deep connection to the werewolves and place in the pack had been viewed a personal offense, and now the people she loved were paying the price. A knot formed in his chest, he desperately wished he could make her understand the depths the pack would go, the depths  _he_  would go, to ensure her safety.

He observed her from bottom to top, her converse-clad feet tapping nervously on the floor whenever she remained stationary, her legs tense under her worn blue jeans, but her hips, her hips were where her body began to betray her. In stark contrast to her lower body, her upper body responded to the assault on her eardrums. Hips swaying ever so slightly, shoulders bouncing, head bobbing, lips moving along with the lyrics. His eyes froze there, becoming entranced with the way they moved, stretched, slid along her teeth as she lip-synced. The sudden wish to hear her voice, hear her sing to him as she threaded her fingers through his hair forced its way to the front of his mind and he found himself without breath for a moment.

The familiar, endlessly irritating, make the blood run cold ‘ _good God **what now** ’_ voice that rang in his left ear caused him to suck in a sharp breath, shoulders squaring as he snapped his eyes away and came to a crash landing back into reality. How many other people were still here? She was just so damn  _distracting_.

“Enjoying the show?”

Oh, how he wanted to sucker-punch the smug smirk that had taken root upon the face of the one person that always seemed to make it his mission in life to sour the werewolf’s already foul mood right off his stupid, stupid face. He stared the bane of his existence down for a long moment before speaking.

“I’m here to protect your sister.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow.

“ _If_  she needed you to protect her, which at this point might actually be a reality because I’m pretty positive she’s gonna go down any second, is creeping really the best approach?”

Derek’s eyes slid closed, if for no other reason than to remove Stiles from his sight even if just for a moment.

“I wasn’t  _creeping_.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes.

“You were creeping.”

Green eyes flew open, brimming with irritation that only grew like a wildfire sprinkled with gasoline at the twinkle in the younger man’s eyes. He knew Derek would endure whatever he dished out. To the massive misfortune of the former Alpha, Stiles had discovered his Achilles heel. The words had never been spoken outright, but there was much to be said about the Stilinski detective gene. While he had never mentioned his discovery to his sister, or anyone if they hadn’t already worked it out for themselves as Parrish seemed to, Stiles did not hesitate to dangle it over Derek’s head.

 “I could leave, if you think you could do a better job.” An empty threat, but the only one Derek could come up with.

That stupid smirk never faltered, never wavered as Stiles slid past him to grip the handle to the door he had been rooted in front of for hours.

“Whatever you say.”

With a wink, he slipped into the room, alerting his sister to his presence by reaching forward and plucking an ear bud out of her ear. Her look of agitation melted as she turned to her little brother.

“Hey monkey,” she mumbled as he gathered her in his arms, readying himself to give convincing her to rest another go.

The door shut with a click, once again separating Derek from the scene in front of him. The last waves of irritation faded away as he watched her face stretch into a sleepy yawn, feebly swatting Stiles away as he tried to drag her away from her fervid research to the cot. A new emotion surged through him. A new-found appreciation for the sheriff for not only surviving one Stilinski spawn, but two.


	3. Of Tricks and Candy Apples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek muses about the scents of the season, thinks about Disney movies, and is sickeningly adorable. In that order. I really just wanted an excuse to make Derek happy by making Peter miserable. Short and pointless seasonal musing.
> 
> Pairings: Derek x OC/reader

 

It was that wonderful time of year again. The leaves were turning, the air becoming cool and crisp, lawns decorated festively with ghosts and tombstones. The loft was littered with empty candy wrappers, the teens responsible thankfully having come down from their sugar high and vacated on the promise of candy apples and horror movies later. Not that Derek needed any of these reminders, what with the smell of pumpkin  _everything_  haunting him everywhere he went. Really, it was everywhere she went, but ever since their relationship had seemed to take a 180, they found themselves attached at the hip more often than not.

“Distance makes the heart grow fonder,” Lydia had sing-songed one day, seemingly unexpected as they stood apart from the group and he snuck what he thought were stealthy glances her direction.

Try as he may, he couldn’t find it in him to be irritated with the overly enthusiastic red-head. She had always insisted they would end up together, even before the shift in dynamic. Before, it had been met with nothing but unanimous groans and eye rolls, and no amount of sweet talk convinced anyone Banshees could out sniff true love as well as death. Now it seemed he couldn’t escape the sentiment no more than he could escape the tell-tale scent of fall lurking around every corner. Even her own spastic brother joined in the chiding, though he suspected it was more to get under his skin than encourage him to make a move.

The enticing scent of caramel wafted from the kitchen, dancing playfully with the scents of fresh apple and melted chocolate. Derek wasn’t sure when his loft started smelling so…domesticated, but he wasn’t sure he hated it, regardless of what he said. Between the warm spices of autumn, ‘fancy’ hand-soap in the bathroom, and the overpriced plug-in air freshener she had snuck in one day to ‘help with the smell of teenager and wet dog,’ his shelter had become a home.

The sun had begun to set, and the familiar sound of a screeching radiator belt announced the arrival of at least part of the pack, the rest sure to follow. He could hear Stiles already, bragging about his sister’s prowess in the kitchen and telling yet another story about Halloween in the Stilinski house. He wasted no time barging in like he owned the place, swooping through the kitchen to sneak a taste and scurry away to claim a spot on the couch and pick the first movie of the evening.

Derek looked up from his place in the book she had been pestering him to read for months to watch in unmasked amusement as she shouted after him, warm greetings and smiles mixed in to her tirade. Scott smiled and waved sheepishly in response, sinking down next to his friend with a laugh. The last traces of orange bled slowly from the sky as the last of the pack wandered in, deep sniffs followed by compliments and complaints that no one waited to start the movie ringing though the loft.

“Shoulda been here on time,” was the only response Stiles gave before stuffing his mouth with popcorn. He yelped through the partially masticated snack as a hand met the back of his head.

“Don’t worry,” she soothed, balancing a tray of gleaming caramel-coated apples precariously with one hand. “It’s not  _the_  movie.”

“And which terrible Hollywood rendition of werewolves are we subjecting ourselves to this year?”

“Van Helsing!” Stiles cried triumphantly as he gleefully accepted the sugary treat. Peter’s presence had simply been accepted once they had realized that their negative response towards him did nothing to dampen his spirit. He continued to linger like an unwelcome party guest, and so they had resigned themselves to tolerate him.

Peter groaned, but sat down anyway. He had made his opinion on their new-found tradition clear, but that did nothing to stop it. It had started the year before, as paranoia on a quiet Halloween led to the entire pack laying anxiously around the loft simply waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never did, and instead they found themselves watching ‘The Wolf Man’ when it had come on the television, complete with running commentary, loud choruses of boos and jeers, and the occasional popcorn missile thrown at the screen.

Derek stood, closing his book with a snap. Peter was going to wind up with candy apples for eyes if he allowed the conversation to continue. Just because he was tolerated did not mean he was tolerated quietly.

“Alright,” he announced, dragging his chair closer. “Let’s get this over with.”

He met her playful glare with a dazzling smile as she moved towards him, three apples left on the tray. She spun the tray in her hands, pushing the apple closest to the edge towards him. It was plain, just a clean coating of caramel covering the green skin, just the way he liked it. He accepted with a thank you, giddy apprehension rising in his chest at the mischievous gleam in her eye.

“I even made one for you, Peter,” she cooed, floating over, and presenting him with his prize. The fact Derek found himself able to recognize the scene reminded him of something straight out of a Disney movie both made a chill run up his spine and warmth blossom in his chest.

_What was this woman doing to him?_

His blood curdled as he thought about what would happen if Stiles found out he was thinking about Disney movies.

“For  _me_?” Peter gasped, reaching out to pluck the delicacy off the tray. “Why, I don’t know what to say.”

She let out a sickening giggle, leaning close before her grin dropped.

“Don’t get used to it.”

               The only reason Derek didn’t immediately feel the urge to wipe the satisfied grin off his face as he watched her wander back to the kitchen was because he knew better. Peter may not be able to see through her enthusiasm for the season, but he could. She settled into the chair next to him with a smile, her own treat, painted with melted chocolate and covered in a cartoonish number of toasted mini-marshmallows, cradled in her hands with a bite already missing. He couldn’t stop the endearing smile that overtook his face if he tried.

“You’ve got…a little something…” He motioned to the corner of his mouth, grin widening as she scrambled unsuccessfully to wipe her face clean. “Here, let me.”

He reached over, gently cradling her jaw with his fingers as he swept the smear of melted chocolate off her mouth. Her face split into a sweet smile, hands reaching up to take hold of his to wipe the pad of his thumb clean with her napkin.

“Thanks,” she said softly, the lithe fingers curling around his palm making him hesitant to pull away.

“Jesus, you two, we’re already getting cavities,” Stiles called over the opening credits as he attempted to detach his jaw like a python.

They broke apart with fumbling hands and the clearing of throats, sparing one last smile at one another before allowing themselves to settle in to the high-backs of the mismatched recliners and averting their attention to the screen. Laughter soon rang clear and free as the peanut gallery wasted no time sharing their opinions through bites of juicy apple and chewy caramel.

A sputtering cough broke through the merriment, Peter lurching forward as food tumbled from his mouth.

_“Is this an **onion**?!"_


	4. Eat something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Force feeding Derek when he forgets to eat.

She slammed the plate down with a clatter, startling him from the dust covered pages his nose was currently buried in.

“Eat.”

His eyes snapped from the tempting roast beef and cheddar sandwich to her stern face, the smell enticing him. She remembered the banana peppers.

“Not hungry.”

With a huff and surprising strength, she pushed the leather bound book away and slid the plate in its place.

“Derek, you haven’t eaten in 16 hours. The 500-year-old how-to supernatural extermination guide isn’t going anywhere, but my patience is. Eat.” It was no longer a request.

He conceded with a smile and muted thanks, meeting her smile.

“Where’s mine?” Peter asked, voice thick with feigned hurt.

“You came back from the dead, Peter. You can make your own food.”


	5. Make it through the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started off as an imagine/drabble about helping Derek through a rough night. Turned into this.
> 
> There’s some angst. You have been warned.

A loud, throat-tearing, gut-wrenching scream tore through the silence that had settled over the loft like a warm blanket. She had no idea what time it was, having only convinced the severely sleep-deprived werewolf to ‘please just  _try_  to sleep; as she coaxed the sleeping draught Deaton had sent her over with down his throat a few hours ago. It was really more of a low-grade bear tranquilizer, but after hearing how long it had been since Derek had a proper night’s sleep, the Vet had insisted they try  _something_. He had pressed the small glass bottle into his tech’s palm with a smile and a knowing look, giving in uncharacteristically easy when she offered to take his place watching over their patient for the evening. 

“ _Shit_ ,” she hissed through her teeth, flinging the over-sized blanket over the back of Derek’s faded green couch as she scrambled to her feet. Her heart thudded in her ears as her socked feet slid across the floor, hands grabbing for purchase on the pillar before finally catching herself on the railing leading up the spiral staircase. 

Well, now she knew why he wasn’t sleeping. He had been secretive about the bags under his eyes, and when he had shown up at the clinic on a full moon struggling to control his shift he had accepted their help, but not their counsul. 

**“NO! STOP, _PLEASE STOP_!”**

Her heart wept for him as she lunged up the steps, catching herself on the edge of his bed as her feet finally slipped out from underneath her. If he didn’t insist on keeping it so  _damn cold_  in here. It was then she realized she had no experience in waking a werewolf up from a night terror. Administering vaccines? Check. Drawing blood? Walk in the park. But this? Definitely not taught in school. Not that she had  _ever_  imagined herself in any version of this scenario.

“Derek?” Her soft call was met by hoarse screams and shouts of terror, and she found herself thankful for his lack of neighbors.

**“GET AWAY FROM ME!”** He roared, writhing beneath the sheets, eyes screwed shut, face twisted in agony.

She jumped back, sucking in a breath and steeling herself by digging her nails into her palms. She absolutely did not need to call Deaton. Taking a tentative step forward, she tried again. 

“Derek!” More screams. She soon found it difficult to fight the burning at the back of her eyes. “DEREK!”

The first hot tear slid down her cheek as a sob ripped through his chest

“ **DEREK**!” She choked out, thankful his thrashing seemed to cease. His chest still heaved, his mind struggling to pull out of the drugged fog that muddled his head and made his muscles heavy.

“Make them  _stop_.” 

Tears flowed freely down her face now at how drastically different his voice sounded. So small, so  _broken_. She was at his side, sinking slowly to the ground beside him as she reached out a hand.

Her fingertips brushed against his arm, feather-light, barely there. That was all it took. 

He whirled around, hand clamping around her wrist in a vice-like grip as his face stopped an inch from hers. eyes flashing a violent blue. Her gasp made him freeze, his eyes dancing across her face.

“Derek?” She whispered after a moment.

Blue eyes faded into green, recognition flooding their depths as she watched him come back to himself. He blinked at her for several moments before releasing her with a start, opening his mouth as if to apologize but incapable of speech.

“It’s alright,” she soothed, reaching over for the glass she had left for him on his nightstand. 

“ _No_ ,” he whimpered, turning his face away from her. “I don’t want it.”

“No, Derek, it’s  _water_ , it’s just water.” One hand gripped the glass, the other reaching out to gently cup the side of his face. “Please drink, just a little. Your throat  _has_  to be dry.”

He relented to the warmth of her hand and gentle sound of her voice, turning his face and allowing her to bring the glass to his lips. He took small sips, the cool liquid heavenly against the raw fire of his throat.

“What are you still doing here?” He croaked out, concern lacing his voice where she had expected anger. Sleep deprivation does funny things to a person, and she fought the disgust she felt for herself as she relished in the rare moment when Derek Hale let his walls slip.

“I told you,” she said gently, placing the glass back on the nightstand, “you’re my patient and I’m going to look after you.”

She wasn’t prepared for the unguarded look on his face as she turned back to him. If he were truly feeling like himself, he would argue with her. Say there was nothing she could do to help him and that, for her own safety, she needed to leave. 

But he was just so damn  _tired_. And the fingers threading through his hair felt so damn  _good_.

“Come on,” she urged quietly, “lay back down.”

His eyes snapped to hers, brimming with panic.

“I’m going to stay with you,” she murmured, holding his face in her hands.

Whatever internal battle raged within him lost out to her pedal-soft skin against his cheeks and her scent flooding his nose. His shoulders relaxed as he nodded microscopically. 

She slipped in beside him, gently tugging him by the arm to lay down next to her as she cradled his head against her chest. 

“It’s alright,” she cooed, stroking his hair, “i’ve got you.”

His eyes slid shut, giving himself over to her minstrations and the sound of her steady heartbeat. Soon, he stopped quivering, his breathing evening out as his body molded against hers. The darkness swept over his mind once more, but this time he wasn’t afraid of the dark.


	6. Cat Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of Dog Person

There are moments in everyone’s life when it feels like time itself has slowed down, even halted. A haze comes over the mind like fog rolls in from the sea, eyelids heavy, muscles sluggish in this one, singularly incomprehensible moment. There are two opposing thoughts one has in a moment like this, and the mortar used to mend the cracks in Derek’s heart crumbled as the only one that rolled repeatedly in his mind was the latter.

This can’t be happening.

His sight remained trapped on Deaton’s face, unwilling to accept the defeated look in the man’s eyes and incapable of dropping his gaze to the lifeless body of the woman the Druid crouched beside.

This isn’t real.

Squealing brakes barely registered at the back of his subconscious that desperately scrambled to regain his slipping grip on reality. Slowly, the gears connected in his mind and ice-cold panic took what precious little oxygen he was managing to breathe in. His eyes found Scott’s in an instant from where he hunched at Deaton’s side, seeing the same panic flash behind unshed tears.

Stiles.

“It worked!” Came his triumphant cry as he burst through the rusted doors to the basement of the loft building. “They’re gone, tucked tail and ran back to Hogwarts. It’s over, it…what?”

He froze in place, panting with exertion.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

His face-splitting grin faltered as his eyes flashed between them.

“Scott why are you looking at me like that?”

The Alpha’s shoulder’s heaved as he unsuccessfully attempted to suck a breath into lungs that no longer wanted to cooperate.

“Stiles,” he choked, as if trying to calm a wild animal about to bolt through the lump that had risen in his throat.

His feet scraped beneath him as he scrambled to find his footing, Deaton gripping his arm firmly when his legs wouldn’t hold his weight.

“Scott?” It was less of a question and more of a plea. What he was pleading for he wasn’t sure, but as his eyes dropped from his friend to trace the intricate circular pattern sketched in the floor to the woman that lay in the center, he began to realize.  
“No.” Barely a whisper, an exhale of breath laced with the intention of becoming a word, but it was enough for nearly all the pairs of ears in the room to pick up. She had promised, promised to break the trance if it took too long. Swore not to drain her life force to protect them.

He should have known she wouldn’t listen.

It suddenly became so clear to him why she was so adamant he was nowhere near her at any time during the plan. It wasn’t just to protect him.

The broken circle of mountain ash explained why no one stopped her, although the starburst pattern proved there was no doubt a valiant effort. Disbelieving eyes flashed to Deaton, flaring with anger when the when the older man offered little more than hopeless silence.

Derek.

He sought out the one person he knew would never give up on her, not while there was strength in his body and breath in his lungs, any miniscule scrap of hope left. The werewolf’s unwillingness to hold his gaze spoke louder than words would have. Suddenly, his knees forgot how to support him, his only salvation from the cold, hard concrete the two solid arms that locked around his chest. A life preserver in the riptide that drug him out to open sea.

“Stiles,” Scott sobbed, crumbling back to the floor after another failed attempt to pull himself to his feet.

Derek crushed Stiles’ back to his torso, supporting him as his mind and body rebooted, desperately fighting back his own agony as it tore mercilessly through his chest. He managed to give a curt nod to Parrish across the room as the deputy slipped his phone out of his pocket, suddenly remembering there were calls to make as is training kicked in. He dialed the number robotically, raising the phone to his ear with shaking hands.

“Sh-Sheriff Stilinski, please. Deputy Parrish. Thank you, ma’am.”

Stiles’ head lolled up, finding the source of the voice through a thick smoke of confusion.

“Sir…no sir, it’s…it’s not-“ he broke, voice cracking, “it’s not Stiles…”

Derek could hear the receiver on the other end of the line clatter to the desk, several voices flooding the call with a clamor.

“Sir!”

“Sheriff Stilinski!”

“Call an ambulance!”

Parrish’s own phone slipped from his hand as he slumped against the wall.

“Deputy? Deputy Parrish!”

He made no move to pick it up from its forgotten spot on the floor, eyes flooding with guilt as they met Stiles’ before slipping closed, unable to bear the broken expression on his face.

As an unfortunate side effect of growing up in the supernatural world, Derek had grown accustomed to the sound of screams. He had even, on more occasion than one, bore witness to the mournful screech of a Banshee, enough to shake any man to the core.

But the anguished wail that tore and clawed its way out of the writhing boy trapped in his grip would haunt him for the rest of his life.  
He allowed his eyelids to slide shut, hot tears tracking through the grime and blood that coated his face as fingernails gripped and tore along the expanse of his fore arms. He didn’t try and stop it, instead accepting the pain, welcoming the burn as his skin stitched itself back together. It gave him something to hold on to, something to distract him from the heartbeats that fluttered around the room, taunting him. There was one missing. The one that always beat just a little louder, a little clearer than the others.

He wished she were a cat person.

The thought surprised him as it bobbed to the surface of his shipwrecked mind, but he suddenly found himself wishing it harder than he had ever wished for anything before. Wished she had 8 more lives to spare, wished she could dance away from falls that would leave others bloody and broken like she danced around his loft, slipping in sock-clad feet and encouraging him to join her with a carefree laugh.

He wished he would have danced with her.

He wished he could stop his ears from still searching for the familiar drumming of her heart, a sound he had been lulled to sleep by when she stayed over a little too late, losing herself to time and ancient leather-bound books before collapsing in exhaustion on his couch. He would carry her up the stairs, tuck her in his bed knowing she would chide him for it in the morning and take her place downstairs, letting the steady lub-dup sooth him into slumber. The silence in its place mocked him. In a moment of masochism blocked out every other sound but that crushing silence, willing her with every fiber of his being to fight a battle that had already been lost.

Please wake up.

Green eyes snapped open in shock, convinced his last string of sanity had snapped until he saw his expression mirrored on Scott’s face. 

There. So quiet even he almost didn’t hear it.

Lub-dup.


	7. Religious Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of Dog Person

_Beep…beep_

Derek had never prayed before. Never confessed his many sins to a man of the cloth, never clutched amulets or tokens of Gods or deities to his chest in a moment of divine faith, never bathed in the warm light of love and forgiveness from an almighty creator. He never put much stock in any of it, how could he, having seen the things he’d seen, done the things he’d done? How could a creature such as he be worthy of redemption in any form? He had no faith in himself, given up the hope he was deserving of such purity long ago, instead he placed his faith in others. In Scott. In Cora.  _Jesus_ , even Stiles.

In her.

Fists twisted tightly together, knuckles pressed into his forehead, eyes screwed shut, elbows on his knees, hunched in the uncomfortable hospital chair that dug into his back and made his feet go numb, he prayed. Not to a holy spirit or divine being, not to an idol or crucifix, but to a sound.

_Beep…beep_

_There_. That high-pitched, grating, artificial sound that pierced through his skull and matched the faint thumping of her heart. Healways hated hospitals, the smell that burned his nose and back of his throat, the noise and ceaseless commotion, the constant beeping, clicking, and whirring of machines, but that sound, that  _sweet_  sound. He prayed for it to  _just keep going_ , even as dull pain throbbed behind his eyes, swelling with each harsh rise and fall of the monitor. He would endure the pain for the rest of his life if it meant her heart would keep beating.

He clung to that sound, wrestling away the images flashing through his mind, too exhausted to do much else than desperately anchor himself to the repetitive cadence that broke through the howling tornado that raged in his head. The sound that, in the shambles the events of the last several hours left of his mind, was the only thing that tethered the woman just on the other side of the glass to life.

_Beep…beep_

Frenzied pleas choked by unbridled wails of desperation.

The protesting roar of the engine as the needle sped into the red zone.

The lights atop Parrish’s squad car flashing and swirling ahead of him as he struggled to keep his vision from spinning.

Lydia’s tear-streaked face, eyes brimming with confusion, but face swept with short-lived relief.

The sickening scream of the monitor as the wretched green line stopped spiking.

The nauseating jerks and spasms of her lifeless limbs as the voltage ripped through her ribcage.

Scott’s frantic attempt to pull a flailing Stiles away.

The way those two little blips brought all the color back to the world.

_Beep…beep_

His lifeline. His salvation. Proof he had done something  _right_ with his wicked life. As the drumming inside his chest matched the steady rhythm he became more convinced than ever that if it stopped, so, too, would his own heart. It would be a mercy.

_Please don’t stop._

_Beep…beep_

* * *

At first, there was nothing. And then, pain.

Holy  _shit_  the pain.

It was everywhere, pressing in on all sides, settling over her like a weighted blanket, resonating out from her bones and unraveling the very fibers of her muscles. The groan that tried to crawl out of her throat crackled and croaked into the sterile hospital air, the only result from her feeble attempt to lift her hand a weak twitch of her fingers. Funny, nowhere in the fragmented shards of her memory did she remember getting hit by a bus.

Death couldn’t _possibly_  be this painful.

Opening her eyes proved to be one of the worst decisions she had ever made, overloaded retinas sizzling even in the low overhead light. Every breath felt like fire, each puff of air drawn down her esophagus hot sand into raw lungs. There was a soft warmth pressing into her palm, the gentle sensation finally registering through the waves of agony that coursed through her body.

Steeling herself against the onslaught she knew would come, she cracked her eyelids open again, easing them apart and letting her pupils slowly adjust. The room spun and swam, her stomach clenching as she simply resigned herself to ride it out. Soon, things began to take shape. Stark white faded into varying shades of color, blurred shapes became sharp edges as the world came into focus, and the sight that greeted her made her heart swell.

Hunkered awkwardly over the bed, one hand curled into hers, the other dangling off the edge of his chair, was her baby brother. His cheek pressed into the mattress, mouth gaping open, as small puddle of drool accumulated in the sheets.

A fond smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, fingers detangling from his to clumsily brush the hair from his forehead as she had done so many times when they were younger, smoothing away the lines etched by fear as he crawled into bed beside her after another nightmare shook him awake. He stirred at her touch, mouth opening and closing dryly as he snuggled back into the sheets before realization struck through his sleep hazed mind and he bolted upright, eyes skipping across her face as if he expected her to vanish into dust.

“Hey there,” she rasped.

“Hey…” he breathed, the word getting lost in his throat. He looked awful, pale, sickly skin making the purple bags under his eyes more prominent. Angry red lines stretched across his cheek from the folds of the blanket, bloodshot eyes blown wide.

He blinked at her, the intent to speak lacing his hollowed features, but the rattle that escaped her throat had him moving, successfully snapping him out of his trance and sending him fumbling to bring the cup that set on the table beside him to her lips.

“Here, just-there you go, slowly, small sips.”

The room temperature water may as well have been ambrosia, sliding passed her chapped lips and extinguishing the flames that burned down her throat.

She pressed her shoulders back into the pillows with a sigh as he placed the cup down within arms-reach, turning to grope blindly for her hand and clutching it with white knuckles. Her heart clenched at the lost look in his eyes, fingers itching to wipe away the tear that slipped from the corner of his eye and rolled down his nose. He brushed it away with a sniff, eyes dropping to their interlocked hands.

“They, uh…the doctors, they weren’t sure if…they didn’t know if you were gonna…your heart, it…”

His voice broke. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, his mind still unable to process the very idea. Fingers tightened impossibly around hers, eyes slipping closed.

“Please never do that again.”

Between the broken whisper and wobble of his lower lip, she couldn’t stop that guilt that coursed through her if she had the energy to try.

“I’m sorry, monkey,” she said in barely more than a whisper strangled by overwhelming remorse.

He nodded, eyebrows pinching together as he fought the burning that had begun to build with increasing fervor behind his eyes.

“Yeah, well,” he cleared his throat, prying his eyelids open with his best attempt at a watery smile, “guess they’ll have to try harder than that.”

She matched his grin, or tried to at least, tracking the sudden movement of his eyes to the other side of the room to a third form slumped in the recliner.

“Dad,” Stiles called, raising his voice ever so slightly when the older man didn’t budge. “Dad!”

The man awoke with a jolt, gaze flickering from his son to the woman in the bed, sleep fading from his eyes as he surged forward. The pants of his uniform slipped on the leather of the cushion and nearly sent him sprawling out of his seat as he clamored to his feet.

“You’re awake.” They were the only words he could get his mouth to form, as if speaking them confirmed this was real, this was happening, and not just a taunting dream or figment of his imagination.

She gave a small nod in return, wincing at the pain it sent shooting up the back of her skull.

He launched into full dad-mode, scanning her for any injuries she may have sustained while he slept, hands tugging and smoothing awkwardly at the blanket covering her, raking through his hair, halting on his hips before beginning the process all over again.

“How do you feel? Are you in pain? I’ll get Melissa-”

“Dad.”

Are you thirsty? Do you need water? Stiles get your sister some water-”

“Dad!”

He halted abruptly, looking at her face for the first time since the start of his rant.

“I’m okay,” she said softly, taking care not to jostle the needle buried in her arm too much as she reached for his hand. He suddenly looked so much older than she remembered, the lines in his face deep crevices carved into ashen skin, hair more grey than sandy brown, and her eyes caught the white strip of the hospital band cinched around his wrist.

_Great. More guilt._

His head bobbed slowly, eyes blinking owlishly as he swept his gaze over her gown-clad figure one last time before releasing her hand with a squeeze he had meant to be far gentler than it was.

“Well, I’m going to get Melissa anyway, just to be safe.”

He moved to scramble around the bed, tripping unceremoniously over his own two feet before the sound of his son’s voice stopped him. Stiles pressed the call button with a muted ‘ding,’ shooting him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and encouraged him to take his place back at his daughter’s side.

“Right,” he mumbled, numbly reaching forward to tangle his fingers in hers once more.

“I…” Stray tears fell from his eyes to track down his face, his second wind quickly fading as exhaustion once again took its place.

He was relieved from his futile attempt to form words as the door burst open, the brunette that stumbled through the threshold sure to keep her face in a long-practiced mask of calm and order that didn’t do much to hide the panic that flashed in her eyes. Unable to stop the ‘oh thank God’ that tumbled from her lips she was at the younger woman’s side in an instant, fingers expertly working the slew of equipment that lined the room, checking vital signs, catheter placement, and fluid level before turning her attention to her face.

“Welcome back,” she breathed, eyes swimming with relief. “You gave us quite the scare young lady.”

The chuckle that escaped that battered woman’s lips sent a fresh wave of debilitating pain lancing through her chest, and Melissa held up a halting hand at the questions she saw forming in her eyes.

“Easy girl, you’re not out of the woods yet. You need to rest.”

The pointed look the nurse shot to the men in the room was stern, but gentle.

“I’m going to get you something for the pain. Say goodnight, gentlemen.”

With that she swept out of the room, movements swift and precise as she made the transition from surrogate mother back to medical professional.

It was the sheriff’s turn to give a throaty chuckle, knowing better than to argue.

“Well, that settles it. I guess we’ll…” He trailed off, straightening stiffly, tired face betraying his unwillingness to leave his daughter’s side.

She sensed it coming off him in waves, tightening her fingers as much as she was able and giving him a reassuring smile.

“Go home, daddy,” she encouraged. She didn’t want to go back to sleep, not knowing how long she had been out in the first place, but she wasn’t sure how much more of the tears and crippling fatigue she could stand from the remaining members of her family. “Go home, eat, rest, for  _God’s_  sake take a shower.”  
He laughed in earnest, Stiles mumbling a muted ‘ _you don’t exactly smell like roses_  yourself’ before pushing himself out of his seat.

“Come on, dad, whatever Melissa’s coming back with is gonna have her orbiting Saturn in no time, she’s not going anywhere.” He shot his sister a sly grin. “Besides, I have a feeling she’ll be well looked after.”

His voice tilted up with his last words, full of innuendo as her eyes finally caught the figure that took up most of the window on the far side of the room. Green eyes watched her face intently, and the raw emotions that danced across his face left her more breathless than she already was.

Her father’s gaze followed hers, flooding with understanding as he finally conceded with a sharp nod.  
“Right…”

Swooping down, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise.” He stood, taking a hesitant step towards the door. “I love you, pumpkin.”

“I love you too, daddy,” she muttered with a sleepy smile as Stiles pressed his lips to her knuckles before releasing her, moving to gently encourage his father to follow as he pulled open the door.

“I’ll bring your computer in the morning, maybe even smuggle in a breakfast burrito. I’ve seen the menu, you’ll starve on your own.”

They shared one last look, one that was responsible for the majority of the grey that peppered Stilinski the senior’s head, before disappearing around the corner with a wink. If she hadn’t witnessed the events that unfolded in the hall before her, she never would have believed it. The anxiety that built in her chest as her father stood face to face with the watchful werewolf vanished as quickly as it came. He stared the younger man down for a hard moment, eyes boring into his, searching, before gripping his shoulders with surprising force and dragging him into a tight embrace.

Derek’s face mirrored her shock, unsure how to answer the strained ‘ _thank you’_ that met his ears, unsure exactly what it was he was being thanked  _for_ , as he raised his arms to tentatively return the hug. The sheriff released him after a moment, giving his shoulders one last squeeze before skirting around him to bumble down the hall. Stiles was next, clapping him on the back and meeting his look of utter confusion with one loaded with meaning. The moment was brief, fleeting, but spoke volumes.

The nod that passed between the two communicated everything they wanted to say, but didn’t know how.

He stared at the empty space where Stiles once stood for a long second before turning to face the owner of the heartbeat he had been monitoring closer than the machines strapped to her chest. He wasn’t sure when he started moving, not having consciously made the effort, but he found himself drifting closer to the woman that had delivered him from the evil that was once his life.

She watched him, not wanting to think about how fragile his intimidating frame looked slumped in the doorway, the way the bright, fluorescent light illuminated him from behind, giving him the look of a guardian angel. How fitting it was, the vengeful seraph that suffered the abuse and cruelty of the world to protect the people he loved from even a moment of pain. Warmth spread from her chest, buzzing along her limbs all the way to her fingers and toes as the thought pushed its way into her mind that  _she_  was one of those people.

His heavy footsteps came to a halt next to her, eyes never having left her face during his trek into the room, movements small and subtle, as if he were afraid to break the illusion, to wake up back in the nightmare he had been living for the better part of two days. He reached his fingertips out for hers, sucking in a breath as they were met with solid flesh and curling around the warmth as he cradled her palm against his.

“Hey…” he croaked lamely, eyes moving about her face as if memorizing every detail. Sallow skin sunken in around her eyes, sweat glistening across her forehead and neck, usually pink lips dry and drained of color, she was  _alive_ , and for that fact alone he was convinced she was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on.

“Hey…” she responded, equally as lamely, as she clutched his hand harder than she thought possible in her current state.

“You scared me,” he whispered after a long moment, and she again found it hard to breathe as his walls slipped, vulnerability lacing his words and making his hands shake.

“I’m so- “

She broke off with a hiss as her lower back cramped painfully, awake enough now for her body to cry out in protest at her recent complete lack of movement. He dropped her hand, arms flying to help adjust the pillows behind her head. Her lack of protests proved she hadn’t noticed the black lines that flashed across his forearm.

“Easy,” he cooed, easing her back down with a hand locked behind her neck, “you’ve been out for a while.”

“How long?” She groaned, joints cracking as she tried to find a comfortable position.

“Don’t worry about that, just- “

“Derek…how long?”

He sighed, melting underneath her pointed stare.

“Two days. Well, almost.”

She stared back at him incredulously.

“ _Two days_?”

He chuckled, tucking the blanket back from where it had slipped down her shoulders.

“Yeah, you really did a number on yourself.”

Curiosity got the better of her.

“What well-concocted story did Melissa cook up this time?”

He raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of humor ghosting in his eyes.

“Dehydration.”

She narrowed her eyes unbelievingly at him.

“Dehydration?”

“How else would you explain a perfectly healthy young woman dropping almost dead from sudden early onset liver  _and_  kidney failure?”

She blinked.

“Malnutrition probably would have made the list too, if it weren’t for the tacos you vomited on the floor of the ICU.”

“ _Oh God_ …”

Genuine laughter rumbled deep in his chest, a welcome relief that unraveled the tight knots that had developed around his lungs and ribcage.

“Hey now,” he soothed, easily pulling her hands from her mortified face. “That wasn’t exactly your fault, you had nearly 1,000 volts pass through your chest cavity.”

That explained  _a lot_.

Suddenly, the trace of laughter died from his eyes.

“You-you were…” He heaved a deep breath against the tightness that returned in his chest. “You were dead. For three minutes. You were  _dead_.”

The usual deep, comforting timber of his voice wavered. Wetness pooled in her eyes at the anguish that twisted his face.

“I… I couldn’t…there was nothing I could do…I- “

He cut off at the single tear that slid from the corner of her eye, fingers slipping from where they had coiled back around hers to track its path down her cheek, lingering with featherlight touches to caress her cheek, her jaw, coming to rest curled around the back of her neck as his thumb slid back and forth across her jawbone.

Emerald eyes watched her with such an intensity she wouldn’t have been able to look away even if she wanted to.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Her voice sounded small, even to her, unsteady, trembling with emotions she had never spoken aloud.

So many things he wanted to say to her,  _needed_  to say to her. Thoughts that had been swimming continuously around his head, trapped in a repetitive circle, tumbling over and over through the shards of his broken mind. He opened his mouth, but no words came. He wasn’t convinced there even  _were_ words, in any of the languages he spoke, to express the feelings that ripped and tore through his whole body, draining him of any remaining strength he had and leaving him a quivering heap hunched over a hospital bed, head bowed in worship at the shrine of his redemption.

“I love you.”

It wasn’t the confession he had wanted to give, but now, as the words came out as little more than a hushed prayer, they were the only ones that made sense, the only ones that mattered anymore and that would ever matter again. She could spurn him, tell him all the things he deserved to hear and more, banish him from her sight for eternity but it wouldn’t matter. His heart was no longer his own, he had given it to her completely and freely, regardless of whether she wanted it, and she would hold it in her hands for the rest of the time he walked this earth.

The cold tendrils of rejection coiled deep in his stomach at the blank look on her face, but as he moved to leave, to give her the space she so obviously wanted, the hand that hooked into the collar of his shirt stopped him in his tracks. She had aimed for his neck, but her coordination currently being what it was, this would have to do.

With a sudden burst of energy, she yanked with all the strength her abused muscles could manage.

He fell against her, and what resulted was less of a kiss than an awkward mashing of mouths, teeth scraping as lips slid against one another through tears neither of them remembered shedding, messy, hurried, desperate, and absolutely  _perfect_. The part of his soul he thought long dead cried out with a joy he no longer thought himself capable.

_This was real_. She was warm and alive underneath him, and responding to his touch with enthusiasm admirable for someone who had been in a coma for the better part of 48 hours.

All too soon, a sharp voice ringing clearly behind them broke them apart.

“Alright you two, that’s enough,” Melissa chided as she swept in from where she was most certainly  _not_  watching the exchange from the hall.

“She needs to rest, and  _you_ , Mr. Hale, need to go home. You’ve been here for two days, in those same clothes, and I don’t remember  _once_  seeing you eat.”

She flicked the air bubbles out of the syringe she held in her gloved hands, face the perfect mask of motherly discipline but eyes sparkling tenderly as they passed between them. He smiled sheepishly, ducking his head against the scowl he received from the woman beneath him to press one last, lingering kiss to her lips before settling in the chair next to her.

“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep,” he hummed, hand sliding down her arm to cup hers, thumb brushing across her knuckles.

As whatever substance Melissa slowly pushed into her I.V. took effect, she could do little more than nod her agreement.

“I love you, too…” she slurred in her last seconds of consciousness before the drugs in her system pulled her into a deep slumber, and he lived for the moment when her heard those words leave her mouth again. Preferably not under the effects of a controlled substance, but for now, the raging storm inside of him calmed. The howling in his ears died down and for the first time in a long time, he felt at peace.

As Melissa took her leave she gave his arm a gentle squeeze, shooting him a pointed look before scurrying away at the sound of the intercom.

He would go home, sure she would return shortly with angry words spoken with a sharp tongue if he didn’t, but not yet. For now, he watched her sleep, bathing in the warmth her presence provided him, reveling in the feel of her skin against his, of her steady heartbeat ringing in his ears. He would leave here with the promise of more. More gentle touches, more stolen glances and shared moments, more sweet kisses, and prolonged embraces. He would dream of her face until he could hold her in his arms the way he had so often fantasized and wake up in the morning to her exquisite face. He would go home, but not yet.

Not yet.


End file.
